


to be shore of it

by vantas



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/F, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vantas/pseuds/vantas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Meenah Peixes.  You are the heiress to a great empire, but you are not a slave to the throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be shore of it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vintar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vintar/gifts).



* * *

i

* * *

When you are young and know all too little about the wiles of the world, your life is stunningly simple.

What you see is what you know. What you know is what you see. At this time, that happens to be the sugary coating that manipulates your perception of your quaint galactic empire and your equally as quaint empress, who is content as can be living a life of glorified servitude. She is not so much a ruler as she is a slave to the throne; tied to the wellbeing of her people by the very same golden crown adorning her head, and with no one to fulfill her own whims. When she becomes ill and tired and far too weak to lift herself up from the elegant confinement that her respiteblock provides, there is no one there to hold her hand and offer words of comfort barring you. You are not very good at either, hands too unsteady to stay still for far too long and vocabulary too harsh to provide much relief, but boy do you ever try. 

She is your empress and your guardian. Your predecessor and your mother. When you ask why there is no loving moirail or matesprit at her side when she needs them the most, she simply tells you it is but an empress's fate to bear the weight of crown alone. You, too, will one day outlive every single person you know and love. 

It is an understatement to say that this does not sit well with you. 

You rummage through every history book you know, access information you do not actually have proper clearance for but get your grubby hands on anyway. Your desperation is admirable, but the information you seek comes in loving droves of _zilch_. Queasiness and dismay dominate your stomach. In no part of history, within this sad system that takes and takes and takes, has it ever given back. 

You ask your guardian, for wiser than her there are none. Your inquiry is tinged with childish delusion. You ask, with all that innocence and life inside you, why she can't just create a special rule to make sure everyone gives as much as they take. 

She smiles, radiant and lovely as always, and tells you: " _An Empress already has all she needs, my grubling._ " 

But you do not understand that and you never do. This kind of life shows no appeal to you.

* * *

ii

* * *

In the following sweeps, but little before your 5th, you encounter the girl who would become your moirail. 

Aranea Serket is a dainty little thing. She is made of soft edges and cerulean hues wrapped up in shiny red accents. Her hair is neatly pinned back behind her ears and her white rimmed glasses elegantly perched atop the bridge of her nose. She can recite to you Crypstory: The Short Tale of Foreign Politics from page 1 to page 612 and her idea of a flushed courtship is to snuggle it up over painful, ploddingly described retellings of events. You are glad, from the bottom of your pump biscuit, that you did not entertain flushed affections for her. 

When you meet, it is by chance. When your friendship and eventual moirallegiance occurs, it is seen as a wonderful privilege by your guardian. As a young heiress, it is of utmost importance that you experience all you can at this most tender age. The weight of the crown is heavy like no other, and it will surely pop your proverbial vascular system like a bubble in the sea—or so they say.

You observe Serket for some sign of weakness. Some sort of bizarre justification to the plight of the empress, destined to be complacent despite the overwhelming lack of autonomy thrust upon her. When you find none, despite her laundry list of flaws (starting with her marvelous ability to be a complete and utter stick in the pond), your chagrin increases tenfold and your weariness a hundred. 

One day, you find yourself ripping a book right out of her grasp, jaw clenched and dress hiked up so far it borders on indecent. Your knees are flushed in royal hues and marked with the same pattern as the floor you are currently kneeled on. She blinks and stares at you, hands still posed for a book that is no longer there and you can see the confusion on her face as sure as the depths of the ocean. You have always been kind of a grumpy little shit, but never enough to knock Hahrry Potter and the Grist Maker's Pebble out of her hands. 

"Serket," you begin, licking your lips impatiently and putting the book down next to you. Your thumb is still snug between the pages where she left off. "Why we gotta do all this fuckin' shit?"

She blinks at you, seed flap closing and opening twice as she carefully considers her answer, before she realizes she does not even understand your inquiry in the first place. With an ever expanding lack of understanding, she takes the literary doorstopper from your hand and slips a bookmark between the pages. She is prepared for a serious conversation. "Could I be given some context? I can't answer a question I reely—" an unforeseen pause as she accidentally indulges you with a fish pun, "—I _really_ can't answer what I don't get, Meenah." 

You purse your lips at her. Deep down, you know there was really no way in watery hell for her to extract the meaning of your frustrated inquiry just from that, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't have been _nice_ if she had. Your dismay is at exactly 21.6%, but you suck it up and trudge forward for your moirail. "I said," you repeat, "why we gotta go thru all this fuckin' effort? We ain't no slaves to no buncha wigglers."

But, the look on her face makes it as clear as the difference between day and night that she does not quite comprehend the severity of your statement. In fact, the look on her face is straddling the incredibly fine line between wry and mirthful. You have said something she has never considered, will not consider, and cannot consider. Her thinkpan is thoroughly sunk and melted, and it is the most evident when she tells you: "How could we be slaves, Meenah?"

Your dismay increases. It is hard, not wanting what is thrust upon you. It's hard and nobody understands.

* * *

iii

* * *

Time passes and you graduate from the ranks of **GRUDGINGLY COMPLIANT HEIRESS PLUS PRIDE** and safely ascend to almighty **VASTEEN FUCK YA'LL**. You are 6-sweeps-old and your rebellious attitude is an ache in your empress's heart, but your capacity to feel bad about it dwindles by the argument. 

You cease to participate in the customary cuttle hours and you do not pay much attention to your schooling. Your mind is firmly set on matters not relevant to your empire's fastidious attempts at molding you into a picturesque public servant. You do not want to be Empress. You are more than content eating, sleeping and playing video games. 

Your guardian ( _mother_ ) confronts you on the matter. Your sudden increase in grouchery and lack of responsibility with your duties has her perplexed and thoroughly preoccupied. If there is something on your mind, something that impedes you from focusing on your crown, then she wants you to be aware that she is and forever will be here for you. You could not honestly give any less of a fuck even if a sudden fuckonomical crisis were to occur. When arguments scale in intensity and instruments are trashed, curtains torn and dresses ruined, she does not punish you. Instead, she takes you into her arms and attempts to give you a good cuddling to help calm you down after your outburst and you feel very inclined to puke on her dress. 

The more you brush up on the four pseudo-symbolic C's of the Throne of Culling (Compassion, Charisma and Calculated Cuttlety), the less you want to form part of this freak show. You abscond from home for days at a time, much to the alarm of your guardian. You moirail is full of exasperation and pleads for you to settle down and not be reckless—but you do not to listen. There is no reason for you to listen and comply with something that you have already given up on.

Perhaps in another life, you would have happily jumped at the chance to make the throne your own. Perhaps, in another world, you would have swiftly defeated your predecessor in order to take control of your empire as soon as possible and swiftly arise through the ranks of glory.

But this is neither another life nor another world. This is Beforus, where to become an empress is to become a slave to your people. A tool to be used to maintain a sugar coated order of hypocrisy and condensation. If that is the throne you are to inherit, then that is the throne you will abdicate. 

And when you are finally fed up with everything, tired of the obligations that have been thrust upon you, you do. 

(You are 6-sweeps-old still and you pretend you do not miss the Empress's warmth.)


End file.
